


Cooking by the Book

by greysynonyms



Series: RvB Drabbles [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood Gulch Chronicles, Domestic Fluff, Drabbles, Food Fight, Friendship, Platonic Relationships, Reds finally get a break, Teasing, cute stuff, platonic fluff, sweet tooth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-18 20:31:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12395685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: Donut tries to bake a cheesecake and it goes about as well as anticipated.





	Cooking by the Book

       “(y/n), why do you have your armor on? Aren’t you _dying?_ ” Grif asks, drawing out the last word lazily, sounding absolutely miserable as he wipes away the line of sweat that had formed at his brow. “It’s _so_ damn hot…why the hell don’t we have AC in this place?”

       “We do, idiot,” Simmons snaps back. The Dutch-Irish soldier had forgone the couch at the center of Red Base to instead lean against the cool metal wall. “It just happens to be a little bit hotter in the middle of the fucking desert.”

       “Get off my back, kiss-ass.”

       “Boys, boys,” you groan. “Stop wasting energy on fighting. Enjoy the day off—it’s not like Sarge hands out freebees all the time…also I’m heading to Blue Base.” You turn on your heel as fast as you can manage, hoping to make the door before they can process the information.

       Unfortunately Simmons, with his long-legged strides and the corded muscles and cyborg-technology that compose several pieces of his body, was much faster than you hoped. He somehow manages to push himself off the wall and block your path before you can even reach the hallway.

       You wouldn’t consider yourself a short woman, but even with the added inches your armor gives you you’re forced to look up at the maroon-soldier.

       “Why are you going to Blue Base?” he asks in that quick, untrusting way you’ve quickly grown to recognize.

       “I don’t know, just to hang out. They’re fun. Plus, I don’t have to answer to you.”

       “You just saw them yesterday.” Defensive. This wasn’t going to go over well.

       “Vaguely seeing their outline from across the desert doesn’t really count as seeing them, Simmons.” Even if Tucker had waved and shouted all kinds of obscenities.

       “No, I agree,” Grif speaks up finally. He doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, and he doesn’t stop shoving his face with whatever snack he’s eating. “I don’t think you need to be going over there. What if they pull something?”

       “They are Blues, after all,” Simmons nods.

       “Of all the things for the two of you to actually agree on! Since when do _you_ care?” you shoot over your shoulder at the orange-soldier. “Besides, they won’t do anything because I’m not technically a Red or a Blue… which _also_ means I have no obligation to stay here.” It’s true, you’re a freelance agent, sent so long ago to check on the operations at Blood Gulch before realizing your superiors were only trying to get rid of you by sending you to the desert. You try to step around the wall of a man in front of you but he just crosses his arms. “Simmons…”

       “They’ve taken hostages not for either team before.”

       “Oh my gosh, _who cares?_ I’m going over there.”

       He takes a step out, widening his stance and blocking your path further. “If you can get by me, I’ll think about letting you go.”

       You grab his arm, the fleshy one, your dark, plum-purple armor a stark contrast against his pale skin. “I’d really rather not give you more cause for metal parts, Simmons.”

       “Hey guys, what’s going on in here?” a childish voice chirps happily. Donut enters the room from one of the back hallways, presumably coming from the shower as his blonde hair is still damp with droplets of crystal water.

       “Donut, (y/n) wants to go to Blue Base, and they’ll be really mean to her,” Grif speaks to the young man.

       You actually scoff. “ _Donut_ , really? What’s Donut gonna do?”

       “(y/n), no!” the pink-soldier whines. “You have to stay here! We’re way more fun than the Blues! We can pick out the new lace I want to order, or practice the new musical number for Sarge, oh, oh! Or we could bake!”

       Simmons feels when your hand on his arm goes slack. Bingo. “I hear Donut makes a mean cheesecake.”

       “Donut, what the fuck?!” Grif immediately complains. “You haven’t made me cheesecake?!”

       “Shut up, fat-ass,” Simmons hisses.

       “How good is your cheesecake?” you question almost inaudibly.

       “It’s delicious,” Donut says confidently, and Simmons grins as your hand falls.

       “…Fuck. Okay, pinky, you better get to cooking, and if it’s anything less than spectacular…” You turn towards the maroon-soldier slowly, and though your face is hidden by the golden-orange mask, the point is effectively conveyed--you see it in the way his eyes widen just slightly. He’s lucky he picked up on the fact that you have a massive sweet-tooth that you haven’t been able to sate due to Grif’s eating of literally anything with sugar in it. Without another word you disappear into the back hallways, heading for the temporary room you’ve been staying in--you’re not going to sit out there and listen to them tease you about your interest in sweets.

       “How the hell did you know that was gonna work?” Grif questions.

       “She’s a girl who hasn’t had anything sweet for months. Yeah, that was hard to figure out,” Simmons sneers. “Besides, I figured out that little weakness when we were talking a few weeks back. She practically started drooling when I mentioned chocolate.”

       Grif chuckles, “Girl after my own heart. Well you heard her, Donut, get in the kitchen.”

 

       “Is it done, is it done?” you sing-song excitedly, bouncing into the kitchen. Turns out, you really couldn’t wait; not to mention it’s been an incredibly long time since you’ve done any baking.

       Donut smiles widely, fueled on by your apparent anticipation. “It’s only been a few minutes—something like this needs time and love to be good!”

       You visibly deflate but smile regardless. “Well then, anything I can help with?”

       “You…you bake?”

       “I mean, not all the time, definitely not recently, but I like making food,” you shrug. “Especially sweets.” The ear-splitting grin you receive from the young man causes you to laugh. “I suppose you never have anyone to share your passion with here?”

       “Never. I always have to do the cooking and the cleaning and the decorating… Why didn’t you tell me before that you like cooking?”

       “Never came up. Now, what should I do?”

       “The recipe is right there,” Donut says, pointing a beautifully manicured nail towards a piece of paper on the counter before grabbing a pink apron off the back of a chair and tying it around his waist. “I’m getting the liquids in a bowl over here, so you can start on the dry ingredients.”

       You put a hand on your hip playfully. “And what? _I_ don’t get an apron?”

       With another shit-eating grin, Donut grabs another apron out from a nearby pantry and holds it out towards you. “Whenever I get them in the kitchen they _never_ wear the apron.”

       You laugh loudly, not believing that he has not only one but _two_ girly aprons, but accept it all the same and tie it around your waist. “I can’t imagine why,” you giggle as you look down at the cream-colored frills that decorated the borders of the fabric. “Thank you, Donut, I’ll wear it with pride.”

 

       A squeal from the kitchen catches Grif’s attention and he opens his eyes, looking to Simmons in confusion. “There’s no way that was Donut…right?”

       “I wouldn’t put anything past him,” Simmons dismisses, though he stands up and starts making his way towards the source of the sound.

       Grif groans as he pushes himself out of his comfortable position on the couch and follows behind.

       As they near the kitchen the sound of giggling and more squealing becomes very prominent. “Donut! Stop it!”

       The two soldiers just stand in the doorway, staring at the sight within.

       You _never_ take off your armor. In the months that you’d been stationed in Blood Gulch they’d seen the back of your head maybe once for about a fraction of a second. So when they see Donut with his limbs tangled around a woman they don’t recognize, both of you covered in unknown sugary substances, all they can think to do is stare.

       “Hey, guys,” you greet with a bright smile, a smile that is quickly replaced as your face scrunches into a laugh. “ _Donut!_ ” you squeal, trying to push the blonde head of hair away from you as his tongue licks a spot of sugar-coated butter and cream-cheese off your cheek.

       “(y/n)?” Simmons asks incredulously.

       “Yeah?” you reply, managing to spin around in the arms constricting your waist. You try to keep the surprise out of your tone—you never would have guessed how strong Donut is just by looking at him.

       “Donut, what the hell are you doing?” Grif asks.

       “She started it,” Donut defends easily.

       “Bullshit!” you call. “All I did was put a little flour in your hair.”

       “Yeah… that’s called starting it.”

       “Oh, get back to work, you.”

       With a laugh the young soldier unwinds himself from you and goes back to mixing the final ingredients together in a big bowl.

       “And here I was expecting to find a nice, freshly made cheesecake waiting for me,” Grif huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You two are really wasting my time.”

       You roll your eyes and lean around Donut, dipping your finger into the bowl of uncooked cheesecake filling. With a glob of beautiful, golden batter hanging off your finger you approach Simmons and hold it up to him tauntingly. “Open up for the airplane,” you tease.

       Simmons slowly obeys, opening his lips just enough for you to slip your finger inside. Carefully, he rolls his tongue over the tip of your finger, allowing the contrasting sweet and savory flavors of the cheesecake to overwhelm him.

       “Good?” you ask, pulling your finger back.

       He closes his eyes, savoring the flavor for a moment. “It’s perfect,” he speaks finally, opening his eyes to look down at you.

       “Thank you~!” Donut chimes happily, pouring the filling into the graham-cracker crust you had prepared.

       Grif just stares. “What the fuck?! Why did _he_ get that?!”

       “Because he wasn’t being a whiny baby about it,” you reply smoothly. “Maybe you’ll get some next time if you behave.”

       “If I _behave?_ What the—”

       “If you continue your use of foul language you won’t get any, Private.”

       “Are you threatening me?”

       “Not at all…though, wouldn’t it be a shame if something happened to you while you were sleeping? And I know how much you like to sleep…” You scoop up another glob of the batter and approach him slowly, swaying slightly in your step like a predator about to strike. Your chest is practically touching his when you look up at him. “And, let’s say…the doctor was out?” You’ve been acting as a temporary doctor for the Reds since you arrived--not that you would ever deny anyone treatment but hey, it doesn’t hurt to make him believe you might.

       “You wouldn’t.”

       “Maybe you’re right,” you shrug a shoulder, nonchalant. “But I _would_ do this.” You don’t give him time to react before you outstretch your arm and smear the cheesecake through his eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose.

       He blinks once, twice, and then he’s lunging across the kitchen and his fingers are covered in sticky batter. He catches you on your cheek and shoulder and when Donut shouts a scolding ‘ _hey!_ ’, the orange-shoulder takes another scoop and lobs it at him.

       You laugh delightedly and dip your fingers in the bowl while Donut is busy grabbing an entire handful of batter and crumbs and smearing it across Grif’s shirt, waving them at Simmons with a grin.

       “Hey,” he raises his hands defensively, “I didn’t want any part of this.”

       “Cheesecake was your idea,” you remind him, approaching him slowly until you’ve got him in the corner and giggling when he tries to reason with you. You don’t hesitate to rub the sugary substance onto his face, and he doesn’t hesitate to toss you over his shoulder just as soon as you do and lower your face directly into the now-destroyed pan of cheesecake.

       Needless to say, no cheesecake makes the oven.

       As soon as Sarge walks in on four idiots sitting in a massacred kitchen, laughing hysterically, covered in an unknown whitish substance, he shakes his head and declares that he’s never giving any of you another day off for as long as he lives.

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing these dumb dorks.


End file.
